Faint Music Under Things
by Imry
Summary: “The part of stories no one quite believes.” SandmanSupernatural crossover in six drabbles. WARNING: Mild implied wincest.


Notes: Thanks to lovetheboys, and of course my darling Pen for the beta duties. This fic is set at 'Home' and 'Faith' for SPN and 'The Doll's House' for Sandman. Title and section thingies stolen from Robert Hass' poem"Faint Music". Please don't archive without permission.

Warning: Implied wincest.

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_i. there was nothing he could do but carry it_

Destiny walks the myriad paths of his garden, the weight of his book heavy in his hands. Shapes flicker in and out of the garden, souls he can feel rather than see. They are the ones who can see a little of the path in front of them, understand a little bit of Destiny's burden. Some of them call it a blessing, others a curse. They fail to understand that the sight is neither, it simply is, like rain, or love or the Endless.

A soul stands in the path up ahead. Hell is after him, furious and unforgiving, and Destiny does not envy him.

Destiny turns the pages of his book, paper whispering loud in the silence.

_ii. life's companion_

The bar's the same as every other desperate dive in every other deadend nowhere of a town they've ever been in, smelling of cigarette smoke and spilt foul beer. Creaky stools squeak in counterpoint to the clink of glasses. Sam traces circles that have stained into the wood of the bar from countless sweating glasses placed there over time.

A pretty woman slides onto the stool next to him, and Dean gives her the once-over. Dark hair, pale, slender. Not really his type. She smiles, the way friends do after a long absence, and he has to remind himself that they're here on business.

"Buy you a drink?" she says in a voice that's deep and warm and sounds like summer afternoons. He's taken aback enough to agree, and she orders for him and Sam without hesitation. Sam mumbles a thank-you that's tinged with more than a little suspicion, but she just smiles so that the swirled tattoo by her eye crinkles up. Dean finds himself wondering what she wants, and the irony isn't entirely lost on him.

"You're not from around here, are you?" she asks as he sips his beer.

"Just passing through on business," he replies, and sees her smirk a little to herself. "You know, you don't really look like you're from around here either," he says, and doesn't know why.

"I'm from everywhere," she says, like it's the most normal thing in the world, and it seems for a second like it might be.

They talk of everything and nothing at all, her voice curling around him through a haze of smoke. Afterwards, he could never remember what that conversation was about. Just her crinkle-eyed smile and voice like lazy Sunday mornings, and the constant, niggling feeling of familiarity, like she was a friend he'd forgotten he had.

Sam's sharp elbow in his back and he whips around to see their mark come in the door. When he turns back to excuse himself, she's gone like she was never there. It doesn't bother him like it should; he knew she had to go, and he knows he'll see her again.

_iii. as much as order helps_

The dreams are jagged, little pieces of prescience that cut into him, leaving scars and patterns that make little sense in the cold light of morning. A woman, beating at her window in fear, his mother's (_Jess'_)blood dripping on his face, their white nightgowns charring and blackening as they burn. His old house, tree like a twisted hand that he remembers without knowing.

And then as suddenly as they came, they're gone, and he's left standing in an endless hall, its grey stones older than time. It's not his dream, and annoyance surges irrationally under his skin. He clenches his dream-hands into fists, feels nails that aren't there cut into his palms.

A raven flies over his head, perches on a throne at the end of the hall. A man clad all in black rises. His skin is white, utterly leached of colour, and his eyes are the black of space between stars. Sam knows who this is, knows this is a true dream and that he'll forget it upon waking.

**_My apologies for my brother's lack of manners. Subtlety is not his strong suit,_** he says, his voice resounding in Sam's head. **_I must have words with him. _**

Sam's trying to think of something to say, but by the time he gathers a sentence together the castle is already fading.

"Poor bastard," says the raven faintly, and then it's gone, melted away.

Sam wakes to a steel-grey predawn sky. He stares at the motel ceiling until Dean stirs, and tries to remember.

_iv. a hovering like grace_

The mortal satisfies himself, barely, leaving women like rumpled, discarded dolls in his wake. He fucks them in the restrooms of highway diners, in alleyways, in dingy motel rooms that reek of They are shadow-feelings at best, and Desire is not satisfied.

_Sam extends a hand, helps Dean to his feet without a word. Dean sways a little, spits blood distractedly. Sam's there, a solid weight steadying him against the gentle shift of the ground under his feet. He grips Dean's elbow, almost too hard and not quite enough._

_Dean shivers, despite the summer heat. _

Desire smiles.

_v. when everything broken is broken_

She looks through her little windows, facing out of her grey world. These two little souls fascinate her. They're so far in over their heads they have no idea they're drowning, and when the pieces fall into place, she'll be there. They come and go through her realm is brief flashes, their window flicking in and out of existence. They both lost everything, in a way, but there is one tiny precious thing remaining- the tenuous lifeline of brotherly affection which they cling to desperately. Their particular kind of barely-alive is a temporary condition, and carries a heavy tax. Despair knows her older sister is implacable, and that Luck is a capricious creature.

They both make it out alive, again, by some slender miracle, and Despair drags her hook along her flesh, scoring deep oozing lines. She is nothing if not patient.

_vi. sometimes make a kind of singing_

There's a girl. This is not in itself remarkable, but she is, with her violently coloured hair and mismatched eyes. She lacks the flat accusing gaze of a street urchin, though her clothes suggest it.

"iF yOu'Re LoOKiNg FoR tHe CoRInThiaN, I WouLDN't." she says as he passes by. Sam pauses, crouches down so he's eye-to-eye with her.

"What can you tell me about that?" he asks, as if talking to a frightened animal.

"WeLL I wAs bEinG fIShIeS wHeN I hEaRD mY BiG bRoTher wAS gOInG tO geT HiS dReaM bAcK aND I tHoUgHt hE nEedeD hELp bUT hE diDn'T," she says, all in one breath, cadence wavering like a heat haze. "NOt LiKE yOU," she adds, glancing between Dean and Sam.

"Sam, come on, she's probably just a drug addict," says Dean, and Sam can tell he's uncomfortable with this girl and her wild irrationality. He finds it oddly comforting, staring into her badly matched eyes, to think that there's someone in this world madder than they are.

"Sam, we're running out of daylight," says Dean tersely, all business and annoyed at being held up. As always.

"HeRE, haVe A bUTteRFLy," says the girl, and presses something into his palm.

They turn away, and Sam feels tiny wings beat against his fist. He opens his hand and it's empty, but he finds himself smiling anyway.

- _Fin_


End file.
